A Night by the Fire

The common room was blissfully empty. A boy of seventeen crept down the stairs from his dormitory, alighting himself in the leather chair before the hearth. The smoldering coals cast a faintly orange glow upon the boy's pale countenance, accentuating the dark circles that had begun to form beneath those cold, gunmetal eyes. This was not the first night he had graced the common room with his presence. This was not the first night he had found himself unable to sleep.

Taking hold of the iron poker, he prodded the piles of ashes a bit, trying to coax some life into them. Ironic, perhaps, that he should be trying to coax the life into anything, when his family worked endless hours arranging the deaths of Muggles and Muggleborns. This esotericism was not lost on the boy, but he did not feel compelled to dwell on it.

He jumped, imagining the sound of an owl pecking on the stained glass window, but when he turned his head, there was nothing there. He returned his gaze to the fire, inching a little further onto the edge of his seat to draw himself nearer to it. Even the coldest of Slytherins needed a little warmth now and then, after all.

Oh, Lucius Malfoy was not without his demons. Yet if those words conjured up even the vaguest impression of remorse or regret on Lucius' part, please, think again. He was no more regretful than a snake who had just taken the life of a weak, helpless mouse for a meal. He viewed his duties as just that--duties. He had no choice, but if he had, he was quite certain he would've made the same one his parents had made for him.

He stared into the embers, his elbows positioned comfortably on the armrests, fingers lightly massaging his temples. His thoughts strayed, and he did not deign to hold them back. He let them stray to the owls, the countless owls, the endless burning of letters in the hearth right before his eyes, the masked faces, the cloaks, the darkness... and the new, burning sensation on his left forearm.

He rolled up the sleeve of his nightshirt and gazed at the moving expanse of black ink. The skin was still somewhat red and raw around the Mark, and a painful twinge shot up his arm every time he moved it. His father had assured him this condition would only last a few days, but it had already been four since Lucius had returned to Hogwarts from winter break, making it a grand total of six since that night. He slid his sleeve carefully back down over the sore areas, taking care not to graze it with the fabric.

He had been strangely devoid of emotion as he had watched the Dark Lord himself brand the Mark into his skin. He did not feel any closer to his master since receiving it, nor did he feel the sense of inclusion his father had so movingly described. He was an official Death Eater now, yet he felt that he had been one for almost the entire past year, and had received no credit for the dangerous tasks he had completed during that time.

Lucius wondered, if given the chance, he would desert the society he had so recently been welcomed into, and his firm answer was 'no.' He realized that the way to power was through the Dark Lord. Power, wealth, and other great gains, which he was sure would be unattainable if he followed the--and here, he chuckled aloud--more honorable path, as some considered it. Lucius begged to differ. That so-called path of honor seemed more to him like the path of weakness, of those too weak or those too unqualified to choose correctly.

Lucius was not weak, nor was he unqualified. He knew this was the way for him, and he would do well to remember it. If he wouldn't persist for his own sake, he could at least do it for his family, and for Narcissa. He owed them that, at least. He would persevere. He had chosen well, he knew, and these 'doubts' were actually nothing of the sort: they were mere enchanted shadows of the night, like the imagined peck of an owl at the window.